


Stealing More Than Just Hearts

by hawkywithshawzy



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: !!!!, Fluff, M/M, Snuggling, cuteness, stealing each other's clothes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:01:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7986052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkywithshawzy/pseuds/hawkywithshawzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pat loves stealing Jonny's clothes, even if they don't fit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sweatshirt

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna be adding more to this as I go on...gotta go through all the major articles of clothing. Hehe. Enjoy!

It started one night after a streak-adding win against the Avalanche, boosting them up to 9 straight wins. They went out, of course, hitting the bars up and down the streets of Chicago, alive despite it being almost 3 am. They didn’t have practice until late tomorrow, and their next game wasn’t for another two days, so they had room to let loose. Pat had stuck the keys into the door for Jonny, since he seemed to be too forgone to do it himself, and dragged them into the bedroom to knock out. 

Jonny had collapsed on the bed, face down, his mouth already beginning to drool on his pillow. How he could breathe like that was beyond Pat, while he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth like a decent human being. It was late fall, where everybody knew winter was coming but the snow hadn’t showed up yet, and Jonny’s apartment was cold as all hell. Pat usually keeps extra clothes in the guest bedroom, but that was all the way down the hall, and that was just too far for him to go.

So, he grabbed Jonny’s North Dakota hockey sweatshirt, curled up next to Jonny, and fell asleep.

The light faded into the bedroom slow and sweet, like it wanted to stay dark for a little while longer. Pat woke up to Jonny’s arms tangled in his, his face pressed against Jonny’s chest, boxed in and unable to move. He liked it this way, how Jonny’s warmth was the only thing he needed to keep him cozy. He placed a soft kiss on Jonny’s chin, snuggling in deeper into his arms. 

“Hey babe,” he said, voice soft and rough. His arms closed in tighter around Pat, keeping him close as he could. “Hey, is this my?” he asked, voice trailing off as he looked down to see the Fighting Sioux logo on Pat’s chest. “Whatcha wearin’ this for?”

“I got cold last night,” Pat said, “and I didn’t want to walk down to the guest bedroom to grab one of my sweatshirts, so I just found this one on the dresser, I’m sorry if you didn’t want me wearing it, I didn’t know-“ Pat was stopped by Jonny’s lips on his.

“It’s fine, honey. I think it looks better on you than it does on me, honestly,” Jonny said, a sleepy smile creeping up on his face. “Just right,” he chuckled, noticing how far down it went on his legs. 

“Hey, not my fault I’m short. It keeps me warm, asshole,” Pat said, hiding under this arms, the sleeves covering up hands. “Yeah, I know,” Jonny said, kissing away Pat’s frown lines. “I like it.”


	2. The Sweatpants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More stealing. But this time it's stealing when Pat is SICK. SO FLUFFY. (Enjoy).

Being sick sucks. Everything about it sucks. Not being able to eat solid food, not being able to get out of bed, not traveling with the team. Pat hated everything about it, so when he was hit with a case of the flu in late October, he just wanted to crawl under the covers and never come out. 

The team had a road trip up through Michigan and Ohio, so he was stuck in his Chicago apartment until he was deemed healthy enough to skate again. Jonny had left a list of things he should eat and drink to make him feel better, some stupid green smoothie thing and lots and lots of soup. Pat wasn’t stupid, he grew up with a mother who smothered him until the ripe age of 18. He knew what to eat when he was sick.

But, he did as he was told, because it’s Jonny, and Jonny knows his stuff. Freak.

The road trip wasn’t even that long, only 6 days, but Pat was sick and when he got sick he got clingy, and when he got clingy he wanted Jonny, but Jonny wasn’t here right now. So the next best thing was to go to his apartment and raid his closet until his skin was reeking with Jonny’s cologne.

So that’s what he did.

He let himself in with the spare key Jonny gave him after their rookie year, and threw himself into his closet, searching for the perfect piece of clothing. He dug until he found a pair of Jonny’s Hawks sweatpants, soft on the inside from years of wear and tear. He tugged them on over his boxers, the bottoms pooling around the outsides of his feet, obviously too long for Pat’s little legs. It wasn’t his fault he got his dad’s genes. That’s just how that shit works.

Once he was settled in Jonny’s ridiculously warm clothes, he curled up on the couch and fell asleep watching SportsCenter highlights. Jonny would be home in a few days, he wouldn’t even notice that Pat was there.

Until one night at Jonny’s became two, and then three, and then the next thing he knew Jonny was supposed to get in early the next morning and Pat hadn’t brushed his teeth since he got there. He was still sick, that stupid flu virus still kickin’, and he was convinced that the couch was his new permanent home. He had only gotten up to refill his Gatorade and go pee. That was it.

Jonny walked into the apartment at 4 am the next morning, dropping his bag and keys on the counter in the hallway. The TV was still playing softly, an episode of Spongebob lighting up the living room. Pat was passed out on the couch, one arm hanging off the edge, blankets tucked up close to his chin, just the way he likes it. He looked so peaceful, Jonny almost didn’t wake him up. 

“Uh…Pat? You alright, bud?” he whispered, trying to knock Pat’s arm gently. Pat’s eyes fluttered open slowly, breath hitching in his throat as he tried to lift his head up.

“Oh no, don’t sit up sweetie, lay down, you’re fine,” Jonny said, coming to sit down on the ground next to Pat’s head. He ran his fingers through his messy curls, matted on his forehead from the fever he was still rockin’. “You’re so warm, what’s your temperature? Have you even taken your temperature? Do you even know where the thermometer is?” Jonny asked, placing the back of his hand on Pat’s forehead.

“I’m fine,” he croaked, “really, just a bit of the flu. I’ll be good to go in no time,” he lied, eyes still struggling to stay open. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was here. I just…missed you. And your smell. And your hugs. And your chicken noodle soup. So yeah. I’m here. I’m sorry,” he said, voice barley above a whisper. “I just missed you.” His voice betrayed him, all high and cracky. 

Jonny took that as his cue to pull the blankets off and snuggle in close next to Pat on the couch. He ignored Pat’s protests - “You’re gonna get my germs you idiot,” “You can’t be sick for playoffs, Jon,” - and wrapped his arms around Pat. He glanced down and noticed what Pat was wearing. 

“They fit you better than they fit me, man,” he said, giggles escaping him.

“Don’t make fun of me. I have little legs, but they’re strong, and faster than most,” Pat said, voice muffled by Jonny’s chest.

“You can keep ‘em,” Jonny said, “they’re more your color.”

“They’re gray, asshole,” Pat said, looking up at Jonny through the light of the TV screen.

Jonny just sighed and kissed Pat’s forehead. “Get some sleep, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”


	3. The Beanie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hat. A hat that covers Pat's little ears. A hat Jonny loves on Pat more than he does on himself.

Jonny hasn’t come home yet, and it was already 12:30 am. Pat could only think of two places where he could be: the diner down the street, or the rink. 

He grabbed the first hat he saw, shoved his hands in his pockets, and made his way to his Hummer. Fuck Jonny for making him get out of his warm, cozy bed, and fuck Jonny for being such a damn work-a-holic. Probably because they had the weekend off. Asshole.

It took him 10 minutes to pull into the parking lot of the United Center, the city traffic minimal on a holiday. He strolled into his home away from home, the regular way, metal detectors and all. He loved feeling like a fan - the anticipation as security scans your ticket, a monotone, “Enjoy the game,” muffled by the sounds of music blasting throughout the arena in front of you. People are rushing left and right, trying to get to their seats before warm-ups started. And then you see it, the ice, the blur of red jerseys on the ice. He remembers his first Buffalo game with his Grandpa, his jersey drowning his small frame. That seemed forever ago - now he was playing against guys like Crosby and Ovechkin and Malkin. Crazy how things change.

He pulled the hat lower on his ears - what kind of hat was this anyway, a beanie? - and took a seat in the dark arena, the only lights on pointing towards the ice. Jonny was alone, and Pat could see the little red marks on his forehead even from up high. He was working on sharp angle shots, working the puck around the net and shooting from the corners, a shot Pat doesn’t think he could ever rid his mind of: Toews! From the corner! How many score that goal?! Jonny hated tooting his own horn, but that goal was one Pat wouldn’t let him forget. It strangely mimicked his own goal from 2010, unknown to nobody else but Pat for those few short seconds. He savors that moment everyday, and Jonny should savor his too.

A sharp “damnit” rung suddenly throughout the empty arena, the sound of his stick slamming the ice when he missed his second attempt in a row. Pat stood up and made his way down the steps, bringing himself closer and closer to the ice. He could feel the cold now, refreshing against his face, rejuvenating almost. The ice always seemed to bring out something in Pat that nothing else could - besides Jonny, of course. As he got closer to ice level, he caught Jonny’s eye, raising an eyebrow as if to say: You’re not okay. Jonny skated over to the bench, leaning against it, breathing heavy and labored. 

“Is that my hat?” is the first thing he decides to say, not why he’s at the UC close to 1 am, or why he didn’t text Pat that he was staying late.

“Have you been here since we got out of practice?” Pat asked, eyes zeroing in on Jonny’s tired face. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately, staying up thinking about everything and anything. “But yes, this is your hat,” he said, giving into Jonny’s small smile.

“I like it on you. It covers it your ears and makes you look all cuddly,” Jonny said thoughtfully, using one hand to hold Pat’s face, rubbing his thumb over his flushed cheeks. “And, you have wind burn, by the way.”

“Not the answer I’m looking for, Toews,” Pat said, locking eyes with Jonny as he tore his gaze away from the fluffy ball on top of his head before he looked down at his skates.

“Yeah, I’ve been here, but I just wanted to get that shot down, I am so close, Kaner, SO close,” he said, voice small, like a child who just wants to please his parents.

“C’mon,” Pat said, swinging one leg over the side of the boards. 

“What are you doing, you don’t even have skates on, Kaner,” Jonny said, grabbing Pat’s side so he wouldn’t fall on his ass. “Just trust me,” Pat said, shuffling across the ice towards the goal, pucks scattered all over the ice. 

“You’re flicking your wrist too high up on your stick. Here,” Pat said, coming to stand next to Jonny, adjusting his gloves on his stick. Jonny had his eyes trained on Pat’s mouth though, the way his tongue peeks right out of his lips, brows furrowed in concentration. “There, now try it,” he said proudly, standing back to let Jonny do his thing. He tried a shot, and it went in, top shelf.

“How’d you know that, Kaner? You haven’t taken a shot like this in years,” Jonny said, coming to stand next to Pat. God, he was gorgeous.

“You we’re struggling. I just wanted to help out,” Pat said, his flush deepening, watching his thumbs twiddle around his fingers. 

“Hey,” Jonny said, causing Pat to look up. “Thank you. Oh, and you can keep the hat. Wear it to the Winter Classic, or something,” Jonny said, a grin plastered to his face. “I love you, let’s go home.”


	4. The T-Shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pat's red cheeks just about matched the red shirt he was sporting to team breakfast.

“Shit, Kaner, we’re gonna be so late to team breakfast. We gotta be down there in 5,” Jonny was saying, his voice muffled. Pat had shoved his head between the pillows on his bed, convinced that it couldn’t possibly be 7:55 in the morning. Jonny was never late.

“Don’t get scratched, you hear me?” Jonny said, and when Pat mumbled an incoherent reply, Jonny shutting the hotel door behind him. He peeked one eye open to glance at the clock, and when it did in fact read 7:55, and Jonny wasn’t kidding, he practically flew out of bed.

He threw on the first pair of shorts he could find and grabbed the red Hawks-looking shirt that hung over the back of the desk chair. He pulled it on over his head, grabbed his shoes and key card, and was out the door within a minute.

Why Q decided to make team breakfast so damn early when they don’t play until 7:30 that night was beyond him. Pat was a morning person, and if anybody should have a problem with it it should be Jonny, but hotel beds are always somehow comfier than his own, and room service was just too tempting not to pass up. The only thing that could drag him out of bed was the alluring fact that breakfast would include hot coffee, and apparently now Jonny’s captain voice. And that never worked on him.

“Glad to see you made it,” Shawzy chirped him when he walked into the banquet hall. He gave him a little nudge on the shoulder for good measure. Pat looked at his watch; he had made it within one minute.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck off,” he said, grabbing a plate and scooping some scrambled eggs onto it.

He found an empty seat across from Jonny next to Sharpy, so he sat down and started digging into his plate of eggs, bacon (to the inaudible disapproval of Jonny), sausage, and hash browns. It was chatty in the banquet hall, even for 8 in the morning, so it wasn’t a surprised when Sharpy attempted to take a stab at him. He thought he was gonna comment on his bedhead curls, or his morning breath, or the fact that his eyes still aren’t fully awake. But he wasn’t expecting him to comment on his shirt.

“Ha, nice shirt Peeks,” he said, tugging on the loose material. “You forget your size at the store?”

Pat looked down at his shirt - his shirt? - for the first time since running out of the room. It wasn’t his shirt, it was Jonny’s, a worn out player tee. He could feel his face getting as red as the shirt, avoiding Sharpy’s eyes.

“Just stretched out, is all,” he replied, stuffing a forkful of eggs in his mouth. He was daring enough to look up and catch Jonny’s eye; he knew it was his shirt. He focused his eyes on his plate until it was finished, downing a glass of water because Jonny told him to and rushing back up to the hotel room.

Jonny followed right behind him, sliding his key card in the door before Jonny has a chance to. Competitive fuck. 

“So, takin’ my shirts now, eh?” Jonny said as soon as the door closed behind them. Pat escaped into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

“Oh c’mon Pat, are you actually embarrassed? Why’d you lock the door? I know what you look like naked anyway, won’t do much difference,” Jonny said. At that, Pat swung the door open and shoved the shirt back into Jonny’s hands, closing the door again but feeling resistance from Jonny on the other side. 

“They know,” was all Pat could say. Jonny stopped pushing and Pat let the door go wide open.

“So what if they know?” Jonny said, searching for Pat’s eyes. “Why would it matter?”

“You don’t care?” Pat asked, voice high and vulnerable. He slumped against the bathroom wall, bringing his knees up to his chest and hugging them close. Jonny came in, closing the door, and took his place next to Pat. He snaked one arm around his shoulders, drawing him closer.

“Like hell I care. I like being with you, Pat. I want you to steal my t-shirts. I want you to get all red in the face when I talk about you. I love you, Pat,” stopping when realizing what he just said. All Pat could do was bury his face in Jonny’s chest more.

“I love you more, Jonny,” kissing his warm collarbone. “But Sharpy won’t ever let me live this one down.”


	5. The Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuzzy socks!!! Cold weather!!! Snuggles!!! Fluff!!

Winter, unlike Jonny, was not Pat’s favorite season by far. The bitter cold weather, the annoying amount of snow that always seemed to get in the way of everything, the obsessive amounts of hot chocolate consumed in this condo. He liked hot chocolate, no doubt about that, but he didn’t like that much. It was just obsessive.

Jonny lived for the winter. He had his sweaters and fuzzy socks lined up in the front of his drawers as early as October, even wearing them to bed sometimes. He had blankets draped over the back of the couch at all times, taking advantage of any opportunity he had to snuggle up and watch a movie and avoid real life responsibilities. At least he wasn’t singing Christmas songs before Thanksgiving. Pat doesn’t fly with that.

“Jonny, please, for the love of all that is good in this world, please turn the heat up. I’m freezing over here,” Pat said, tugging the sleeves of his sweatshirt down his arms in attempt to cover up his hands. It had to be at least 50 degrees in their apartment, at least.

“Honey, the thermostat is set at 74. That’s warm enough,” Jonny said from the kitchen, not even bothering to look up from the salad he was making. Though whatever dressing he was using smelled amazing, Pat was still pissy.

“You’re lying, there’s no way it’s 74 degrees in here. No way,” he said, mumbling the last part to himself and he stormed up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Jonny yelled, peeking his head out of kitchen door. “Don’t you want some of this salad?”

“Heat rises, asshole,” Pat replied, shutting the bedroom door behind him. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the drawer to slip on over his boxers, and opened the sock drawer to grab something to warm up his feet. He was greeted by an arrangement of Jonny’s stupid fuzzy socks - Blackhawks ones, ones with green plants on them, and of course, ones with the Canadian flag on them. Dork. Pat went to reach for his plain black Nike’s, but something stopped him when his hand brushed against the Blackhawks socks. They were actually soft. Like they felt all warm and cozy, kinda like how Jonny gets when he’s cuddled up against Pat during the middle of the night. Pat sometimes will wake, only a little bit, to feel Jonny’s arm draped over him, tight and secure. He was always warm during these moments, his body heavy with sleep and contentment. These are moments Pat loves to remember the most.

Without thinking more about it, he grabbed the socks and slipped them on his feet, moving over to the bed and getting in deep. He laid there, with the blanket pulled up to his chin, for however long, Pat didn’t know. He could still faintly hear Jonny’s clashing of utensils downstairs, and the shuffling of his feet down the hallway a few minutes later.

Creaking the door open, Jonny stuck his head in. “Hey, what’s wrong buddy? Do you feel okay?”

Pat sat up a little bit, slouching against the pillows behind him. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good, just really cold,” he said, narrowing his eyes at Jonny. “I still can’t believe you said the thermostat was at 74. It’s definitely not at 74,” he said. Jonny pushed into the room, bringing two bowls of salad with him. He handed one bowl off to Pat, and threw the covers back to get under with Pat. “I turned it up to 77, you big baby,” he said, bitter.

“Thank you,” Pat said, for both the warmth and the salad. He felt Jonny’s body slot next to him, snuggling in as close as he could, when his leg moved to link around Pat’s. Pat knew Jonny felt his feet, the softness of Jonny’s fuzzy socks now warm from Pat’s feet for almost half an hour. 

“No way,” Jonny mumbled, flipping the covers over to get a full on look at Pat’s feet. “My socks! My fuzzy socks!! You’re wearing them!” Jonny yelled, standing up on the bed. “You’re wearing fuzzy socks!! I can’t believe it!” Pat just suck lower and lower under the blankets. “My feet were cold okay, don’t judge me.”

“So do you like them? Aren’t they LIFE-CHANGING?!” Jonny asked. “Aren’t they?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Pat grumbled. “Let me just eat my salad in peace.”

“Of course babe,” Jonny said, bending over to place a kiss on Pat’s head. “But I told you you’d love ‘em. I’m never wrong.”


End file.
